A Rush of Stupidity to the Head
by TeaLogic
Summary: The case of Charlie Milverton is one John will never truthfully display to the public. This is a companion story to 'Sherlock's Law' but can be read as a standalone piece. Character study.


A Rush of Stupidity to the Head

_Companion piece to 'Sherlock's Law'. The case of Charlie Milverton is one John will never truthfully display to the public. This can be read as a standalone piece. _

**Warnings/Content: **Spoilers for both seasons, particularly ASiB, Sherlock chomping, John being a hero, panic, swearing, hurt/comfort/anger, ANGST, S/J friendship

**Disclaimer: **The series 'Sherlock' belongs to the BBC, the concept of Sherlock Holmes belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

**A/N**: Oh, this was hideous. Not only did I actually struggle writing this, Season two completely messed up the placing of _Sherlock's Law_ and this story in the canon timeline. I've decided to stick with March, just after ASiB, and screw any specific dates. Really, vagueness is a beautiful thing.

_Thanks must go to __**ChelGallifreya221B613**__ for making me even consider writing a follow up :)_

* * *

It does not take long before regular life slots back into place after the events of the swimming pool. There are cases, banter, Mrs Hudson's occasional shrieks as she finds yet another part of the body encased in the fridge but also that slight fraction of domesticity that John, much to his own surprise, readily welcomes like a forgotten lover.

However, since they almost met their deaths at the hands of that absolute nutter Moriarty, John believes that something has shifted between them. Like there has been a little regained perspective on their relationship. John can feel that change. It's subtle, mind you. Like a colour being a fraction lighter or a twinge of grey in the impeccable landscape of black and white. Something that could only be seen if you really focus upon it, or, if in John's case, staying up at night alone with his thoughts after he's seen Sherlock again do something utterly ridiculous and chimerical.

He hasn't put his finger on it yet. It takes for a professional Dominatrix with some sort of whip obsession (Yes, John did see those marks on Sherlock's face the next day) in order for him to fully get what's changed.

John doesn't know the full picture of what went on between Irene and Sherlock, and it's pretty likely that he never will. Pitting two egotistical geniuses against each other was very much like throwing corrosive chemicals in a paper bag and leaving it on the kitchen table, where you could only admire the spectacular mess left behind. John couldn't really care less about the details. He had tried to reach his flatmate while the game between him and Irene relentlessly played on, but it seemed the most he could do was rake through his clothes and collections of rocks on that worrisome Christmas Eve.

The only thing that ever crossed John's mind at the time, apart from worrying over Sherlock's mental condition, was the fact that he saw firsthand Sherlock's unfailing ability to throw himself in harm's way. He saw more clearly than ever before the damage that Sherlock was capable of doing to himself. Such thoughts led to other seemingly irrational explanations of past events. Did Sherlock really try and confront Moriarty on his own that night? What if John hadn't been kidnapped? What if that phone didn't go off at that particular moment?

Well then. That was it. John reaches this unsettling conclusion, but dismisses it as utter rubbish. Sherlock doesn't actively go _looking_ for danger on his own. It's just that mixture of his line of work and his own stupidity that puts him in the way of it. So long as John is there, making sure that Sherlock doesn't do anything harmful, nothing will be a real problem. Sherlock will just keep doing what he's doing.

Since The Woman, Sherlock's been keeping busy, even taking 'less than seven' cases to alleviate his personal suffering of boredom. John knows that Sherlock's on a sort of case right now, involving blackmail or murder or something equally devious, but since he's not involved, John thinks it's relatively harmless. In the early morning in March, when Sherlock is rushing out the door, wrapping his coat around him and saying something about being back by evening, John barely looks up from the medical journal he's reading by the fireplace.

Harmless is good.

* * *

The house phone rings the next morning at ten-thirty. John, having slept in, yells from his bedroom at Sherlock to get it, knowing that he probably got in at some ungodly hour last night and is still awake, working on an experiment.

It rings out; Sherlock has decided that it isn't important. John rolls over and shuts his eyes when the phone rings again. _What?_ He sits upright in bed and listens, waiting for Sherlock to answer the phone. Anyone who knows Sherlock personally will not ring the phone again after trying once, as all they get is a mouthful off Sherlock for creating unnecessary noise.

He waits, but the phone continues to ring. John strains to hear over the telephone for Sherlock. There are no light footsteps stomping around the kitchen, no hum of the kettle or a fizzing of a chemical. This lack of noise tells him very clearly that Sherlock is not in the house.

John hurriedly reaches for his mobile and checks it. There are no messages. John is now actively trying to remember what Sherlock has said yesterday. Where he went...

When the phone rings for the third time, John is out of bed and bolts for it. He nearly knocks the phone off the table with the force he uses to pick up the receiver. He is greeted with a high pitched remonstration.

"_Sherlock!" _The indignant voice sounds tired and stressed,_ "That was not funny, next time, answer the bloody-"_

"Greg?"

"_John?"_ There is the slightest of pauses_ "Please tell me Sherlock is there"_

John knows that he's not in the flat, but he still does a quick walk around. There is nothing that tells him that Sherlock has been here since yesterday morning. No disarray of his tools on the kitchen table, the knife is still in place on the mahogany mantle piece, the dust particles are illuminating in the morning light.

"No"

"_Oh"_

John loathes the next words to come out of his mouth, "Is something wrong?"

He hates to hear the reply. _"You had better come to the station"_

John doesn't go straight away, because surely, there is no need to panic. He spends a good fifteen minutes trying to reach Sherlock via his mobile, leaving a various array of messages that range from that light, causal tone to the outright demanding and angry. He then asks Mrs Hudson if Sherlock came in last night, which in turn creates concern. He rings Molly and sparks an unwanted panic in her. He considers Mycroft, but Mycroft would be here if he wanted to see his brother, and he does not need his involvement right now. The dealers were sold out weeks ago, much to the utter delight of the entire police department and their wage slips. He tries to think where he could be if not at the flat. He draws a complete blank.

He arrives at the station at ten past eleven and the look from Lestrade tells him that something is deadly wrong.

To hell with harmless then.

* * *

"It's to do with Charlie Milverton"

"Who?" John has to take a jacket off the chair before sitting down in Lestrade's office. It's a bloody mess, to put it kindly, and clearly Sherlock has been rootling around for case files since there are so many littered on the floor. A mug of tea is placed in front of him, but he doesn't touch it once.

"A 'Hello' columnist and a prime suspect in one of our cases" Lestrade holds a folio of pictures and John spots the profile of an insignificant and ugly looking man smiling gruesomely. Clearly, he wasn't hired so that his face would complement the scandalous material.

"Milverton" It triggers a light in his memory and he thinks of what occurred while briefly watching the news, "Sherlock asked me about him. About three days ago"

"Yes, we were investigating- Sherlock was looking into him about the murder of some girl from Leeds, a reporter called Rose Jones" Lestrade pauses and looks at John in an unusual way, as if he's waiting for him to finish off his explanation. When John doesn't volunteer anything and doesn't ask any questions, he brings up a few photos on a projector of a riverside and a flat that looks barely lived in.

"Sherlock said yesterday morning that he was on to him and that he had a plan"

"And the phone calls at ten this morning?"

"He said that he would be at the station early this morning with something that would finish the case," John casts a quick glance at the row of empty coffee cups that line Lestrade's desk like a wall, "I've been here since six"

"Where is he?"

"I dunno." Greg runs a hand through his hair, looking rather haggard. "Sherlock said something about catching him out, or framing him, but after I threatened a warrant he told me to back off"

Through the glass, Lestrade nods at Sally, who is pointing at a file and mouthing something. However, she spots John and an annoyed look flashes across her face. John smiles blandly in return.

"I don't care about warrants Greg," He's does his best to be polite underneath his own feeling of tension, which has been steadily evolving since he sat down. It's unmistakable now, that something has happened. "Do you have any idea where he could be?"

"Well, we have an idea of what he's been up to. A neighbour on the street where Rose Jones lived reported a car crash yesterday afternoon. Yet there was no-one in the car by the time we got there. It matched the description of Jones' car, a green Ford KA with daisy stickers across the bumper"

Lestrade, again with some sort of hope, hands John a crime scene photograph of the said car which had collided with a street lamp outside a block of flats. John's eyes widen slightly as he knows from the outset Sherlock's handiwork. It's no ordinary car crash, the angle of the car as it moulds into the streetlamp, how the debris is scattered across the concrete. It probably made even more noise than a crash would normally and it even looks like Sherlock had detached the steering wheel and thrown it across the pavement. In all, it's his trademark of absolute chaos.

He sighs irritably, getting another odd look from Lestrade. John doesn't want puzzles. He has the most unsettling feeling that they don't have the time to go over this. It all feels pretty simple. Rose Jones was murdered. Milverton did it. Sherlock's done something stupid. Like crash a replicated car to get someone's attention.

"Greg, seriously," John flings the folio and the photographs onto the desk and holds up his hands in defence "I don't know what's going on"

"You don't know anything?"

"No"

"I thought you, you know," Greg gestures at the air "went everywhere with him"

There is an awkward pause afterwards that John really does not appreciate. _Honestly._

"Not all the time –well, not recently at least. He said it wasn't that important"

"Well, it clearly is"

"Yes, I'm aware of that now." John can no longer hide his agitation, and his sarcasm is thrown into his speech. He gives a quick glance to his phone, which has been in his right hand ever since he left 221B. "Look, Greg, can't we just pop round to see Milverton, have a cup of tea with him and politely ask if he's seen Sherlock around recently?"

"Oh yeah, sure" Lestrade is able to reply on par with sarcasm, and for a split second, the two of them eye each other harshly. For the first time, John is able to understand Sherlock's frustration with the police force. He wonders if the roles were ever reversed, would Sherlock even bother dealing with Lestrade in the first place.

John attempts to soften his tone. Sherlock may not need Lestrade, but he does. "I mean it. It doesn't take Sherlock Holmes to find out that Milverton is clearly involved, with the murder and probably Sherlock's absence"

"And if he's at the flat and he doesn't want to have tea?"

"Then I'll just be that regular concerned citizen." John is on his feet, "Come _on _Greg!"

It takes a few more minutes of persuasion. It's when Greg tries again to reach Sherlock on his own mobile, then is he convinced that Milverton might be able to 'help solve' the problem of where the detective might be. After getting a few tools that Greg claims they might need, ("Hey, as you know, with Sherlock, anything can happen") they leave in Greg's own unmarked car, so not to draw attention from any of his team. As they drive though the inner city to Milverton's high rise flat, John's eyes do not leave the screen of his phone. Now is the inconvenient and perfect time for Sherlock to call. Just as they are about to burst into the flat of a suspected killer, Sherlock will hastily ring and berate the both of them for mucking up his plans.

The sun is shining strongly, boring into his face. It's almost midday by the time they reach the right block of flats. As they climb in the lift, John plans to break through the door to surprise him, but when they find the right flat they find that the door swings open at the slightest touch. Gun aloft; John goes through the entire flat with Lestrade, ignoring his protests. No signs of life or a body. But the marks on the hallway wall and the smashed picture frames in living room indicate that something physical went on. At least there isn't any blood, and John feels at least a small sense of relief as he looks around the modern kitchen.

However, he could really do with Sherlock calling him right now.

"John," Greg's voice echoes through the hallway, "Take a look"

John finds him in the bedroom. Lestrade points to a curtain rail with a severe dent at one end lying across the floor. John sees the edges tipped with crimson and can feel the anxiety flare up on his face. However, Lestrade shakes his head.

"I think it's the murder weapon"

"What?"

"Rose Jones was stuck several times with a pole of some kind; I'm guessing Sherlock found it"

"Then he was here" He looks around, searching for open windows and broken locks.

_You really have done something stupid._

"Why would he do that?"

"Does it bloody matter? Where is Milverton?"

Despite the situation, curiosity is niggling at John. Just what on earth was Sherlock doing, trying to replicate a dead woman's car and smash it into her flat? Was he trying to scare Milverton? A quick internet search, plus Lestrade's own additions gave the overall impression that this bloke was pig arrogant and generally a bit of a dramatist. He was exactly the sort of person that Sherlock would want to wind up first before catching him out.

Yet John ultimately decides, as he again looks at the scattered evidence, that he does not give a damn what Sherlock's been up to. He quickly suggests they lie and wait for Milverton to return. Lestrade originally begins to argue, but really, John is in no mood for other options. Sherlock has been missing for well over a day, and quite frankly, Milverton appears to be as guilty as hell now that the murder weapon is lying on his bedroom floor.

When they wait, Lestrade's whinges about the possibility of a mix-up, but the fact that Milverton is holding Sherlock's coat as he walks through the door a while later is a bit of a giveaway, as is the fact that he tried to stab John with a switchblade when the ex-soldier pinned him down onto the kitchen tiles.

Oh, and he had a gun.

* * *

"So you tried to get rid of the evidence by driving it into the river. Big deal. Where is Sherlock Holmes?"

They've been here in Milverton's kitchen for ten minutes and John is fully aware that interrogation is not what he does best. Various methods of light torture come into his mind whenever an impertinent look flashes across Milverton's ugly mug. He's looked at the oven and the kettle and considered them both as rather ample tools. It's when he starts staring at the open window that he realises that spending time with Sherlock has jarringly affected his creativity.

Lestrade has tried various 'jail-free' friendly methods. John is about to consider asking Lestrade if he could step outside for a while so he could make a 'citizen's arrest'.

"If you tell us, perhaps you can get off lightly with your sentence"

"Fuck off." A toothy grin splits across that fat red face, full of arrogance "That lanky git will be dead by the time you reach him"

Before John is fully aware of his own actions, he has swept Milverton out of his chair and has him up against the cooker, pinned by the throat, pressing him so hard that even with the man's exaggerated weight his back is bending over the hob from the force. Lestrade jumps at John, but with a spare arm he is able to push him away. He hisses into his ear, low and threatening that makes the vile man shake from head to toe.

"You had better tell me, you bastard"

It's amazing what a little pressure and the threat of an ex –army doctor will do to you. Underneath the heavy persuasion of John's fingers around his airway, Milverton burbles out a hurried explanation. When he's finished, both Lestrade and John look as though they've been thoroughly slapped. John is aware that he's actually stopped breathing, his heart beating painfully in his chest. He exhales, loosening the hand that holds Milverton and the man slides to the floor, choking for air. John takes a step back to face Lestrade and they simply stare at each other, confirming that they did just hear what the gasping man on the floor said about what he had done with Sherlock.

Well_... Shit._

* * *

Milverton tells them where he left the car and they take it from there. They don't even wait for the team to fetch Milverton and instead handcuff him to his own oversized bed. John wonders if Lestrade's reputation can take another battering with an incident like that, but Lestrade airily waves it off. In the space of three minutes they are out of the flat and into Greg's battered Mazda. The inspector floors it through the city and out into the suburbs, talking to someone on the phone about the speed of the river and where an object of such weight could possibly be at this point. John is not paying attention. He can vaguely hear himself telling Lestrade that they should call for an ambulance when they find the car. He's thinking of Sherlock, who would have solved that puzzle of where he is with ease. He's thinking of Sherlock lying dead in an ambulance.

Would they need one? The voice inside his head is logical and damning. The possibility of Sherlock being alive is incredibly unlikely. Dear god, he is in a car, a sodding _car. _In the _Thames_.

But there is something in John's brain that cannot process this information fully and it's utterly alien to him. As an army doctor, he had always known when a cause was lost, or when chances were incredibly slim and he had always been frank and utterly honest. Yet here, there is nothing of the sort. In his mind, everything will play out like a manically coloured cartoon where Sherlock doesn't die and the credits roll with them walking off and laughing. John can see himself playfully smacking Sherlock around the head. Saying '_bloody hell, let's not do that again'_ with Sherlock grinning insanely as a reply.

He hates the sound of his own brain trying to lie for him. Remembering that Milverton didn't actually tell them about _which part_ of the car he left Sherlock in, he wonders how airtight a car boot is. Realistically, it would be the only area of a car that could sustain a suitable amount of oxygen for a considerable amount of time. If lady luck had blessed Sherlock with such a situation, then there would be hope. Lestrade seems to reading his thoughts and mentions about how lucky it is that he brought a lock pick with him.

After what seems like an age, twenty minutes at least, they reach the spot that Milverton said he had left Sherlock. John should expect the car to not be there, but he lets out a strangled sound of annoyance when he can't spot it. Lestrade drives alongside the river in the direction of the water flow. Thankfully the spring sunshine is strong and the water not too deep, making even the murky river clear enough to see a Vauxhall Carlton.

John has his eyes fixed on the water, looking for what he hopes is not Sherlock's coffin. The sun playfully reflects the ripples on the water, mocking John as he peers at the riverbed. He shouts suddenly at the sight of a huge mass of brown metal, Lestrade slams on the breaks and they run to the edge of the river. Without a doubt, there is a car down there.

John has enough time to slip of his shoes and throw his jumper over his head before he dives clumsily into the water, ignoring Greg's protests.

It's fucking freezing to the point where John almost loses it and is forced to rise in order to gulp a decent lungful of air. He pushes back down into the water, blinking away the mud and grime that clogs his eyesight. The car is stuck in a bank at the most amazing angle, solidly still and looking for all the world like it has been there till the beginning of time. Against his will, John swallows his fear and swims towards the windows to check the flooded seats. Empty.

There is only one place that he could be in then.

John knows sod all about physics, but in this state he thinks he can simply prise the boot open with his fingers. It just seems the simplest thing to do. Pop Sherlock out and go home. As John merely applies the smallest amount of pressure to the boot's catch, a lot of things go horribly wrong. The car literally slides under his hands and ducks and bobs below him and there is a dull bang. Suddenly there is a rush of bubbles erupting, buffeting John like an angry swarm.

He curses at himself as he pushes upwards and breaks the surface, now feeling something akin to manic worry. Bubbles meant that there was air escaping. Vital air. He shouts to Lestrade as he quickly makes his way to the side of the bank, yelling at him to pass the fucking lock pick and hurry. One hand is grasping the bank; the other is raised high, waiting for the thin tool. The second metal touches his fingers; he's dives under, reaching the car and knocking the metal with his knuckles to let Sherlock know he's back. He jams the lock pick into place and moves it around, trying to loosen the bloody thing.

John doesn't know if he can hear him working away at setting him free, but he nearly jumps out of his skin when a sudden thump is heard from within. He wastes a precious second in wonder at the confirmation before knocking back.

It's taking far too long. Seconds are running past him and his own body is letting him know that he cannot possibly stay for much longer. He stubbornly ignores everything. He comes up with Sherlock or he doesn't come up at all.

Finally, it gives way and John forces it open with numb hands, the last few wisps of bubbles fly out of their containment and the car dips further.

A tall limp figure is curled up inside and John believes that his own heart has stopped beating. His mind is wiped blank as he sees Sherlock lose the last threads of consciousness. Survival kicks in. His own lungs are crying for air and there is an amazing pain in his throat as he wraps his arms around Sherlock's chest and with effort, pulls him out. Knowing that he is out of time, he pushes off the side of the car with his feet as he heads upwards, his teeth clamped to his bottom lip.

John is incredibly thankful for the fact that Milverton decided to keep Sherlock's nice, warm coat, given that if there was any more weight, neither of them would have a hope in hell of reaching the surface. He's completely lightheaded and the sunlight above him leaves bursts of glitter as he blinks. Every ounce of fight is within his legs as he kicks and kicks. The water screams in his ears as he breaks the surface and the adrenaline saps out of him as he breathes.

He coughs and pushes towards land, holding Sherlock so tightly that it will leave a score of bruises for John to see later. Out of the corner of his eye, as he heads for the grassy bank, he can see Sherlock's skin, puffy and papery. His sharp eyes are slid shut and the form of Sherlock lolls over John, his height threatening to send them both under again. It almost happens if it weren't for a pair of hands that reach over and grab hold of Sherlock's shoulders.

"I've got him!"

Lestrade albeit with difficultly, pulls Sherlock out of the water while John manages to drag himself out and collapses on to the grass. Everything is on fire. He is gasping, feeling the immense pain in his chest and arms. His body is screaming at him to just lie on the bank and let the world take care of it all but in seconds he is on his feet, helping Lestrade in carrying Sherlock further away from the water. They lay him on his back and without hesitation John begins the artificial respiration procedure.

He will look back on this and view it as the longest two minutes of his life, and it will haunt him for some time. Where he'll remember Lestrade looking on in terror and the sound of his own voice relaying his medical notes within his mind, with the oncoming dread scampering though his head at impossible speeds.

_Brain death, approx 3-5 minutes. Permanent over 5. Cold temperatures increase chance of recovery, slowing cell deterioration. _

Sherlock is not going to die, because John has him. Dying was for ordinary people. Dying wasn't Sherlock's _thing_. Dying was not something that happened in this world that they lived in.

Time jumps on. John has performed this procedure more times than he would care to think about. For him to fail now is incomprehensible. After the fifth attempt he can hear himself shouting Sherlock's name, as if he could will him to breathe just by yelling at him.

It doesn't work, nothing is working. John tries for the sixth time, feeling the water stream down his face and neck as he pushes air into Sherlock's mouth. His thoughts are bordering on hysterical and his whole body is shaking. His heart is hammering so loudly that he can barely concentrate.

He is about to pull away when he feels a jerk. He is just able to dodge in time to prevent getting smacked in the face from the man he just brought back from the dead.

Sherlock lurches forward as if he's been shocked. He retches and splutters and heaves violently. John instinctively turns him on his side with a firm grip to prevent him from choking. Sherlock does not do revival well, and shivers and spasms under John's hands as he throws up streams of muddy water.

Greg shouts aloud with relief and claps John on the back. He asks if John is okay. He can just about nod in reply as he rolls Sherlock onto his back, his fingers on Sherlock's neck to check his pulse. It's racing and pulsing loudly and it's glorious.

"Sherlock" His voice is barely a whisper. He can hear an ambulance wailing in the distance. Lestrade is calling the team, asking about Milverton and car recovery. He then looks at Sherlock lying on the ground and makes another call.

John is not paying attention, he sees Sherlock open his eyes, flecked with red and try to discern where he is, much to his own idiocy. What was previously numb feeling suddenly turns alien and harsh within John's gut. When Sherlock feebly tries to touch an angry wound on his forehead, John can't help himself and furiously slaps his hand away. What were a few minutes of adrenaline and hysteria have snowballed and transformed into an inconceivable host of fury.

"Y-you... you idiotic, brainless, _hopeless man!"_ His voice cracks, "_What_ were you _thinking!"_

What John gets in return is something from Sherlock's mouth which is too quiet for him to hear and then a sickly groan. His head tilts back dangerously and John has manoeuvre around him in order to cradle his head and get a closer look at his eyes. Concussion would be all they need now to top it all off.

He checks his eyes, where they are alight with an unnatural brightness and fix on him with a glassy stare. It's almost unearthly, how those eyes are drilling into his own. As if Sherlock is looking at him for the first time. John is too stressed to care, thinking that the stare could be due to the lack of oxygen. It's not the first time he's had the detective stare at him so intensely due to the fact that he's completely out of his head.

Sherlock starts rasping, asking about something and John, still unable to fully feel every sense in his body and still concerned with Sherlock's condition, unknowingly burbles out everything that has happened this morning. It takes a moment before the hand that had been holding on to the sleeve of John's thoroughly soaked shirt flops onto the grass, limp and no longer consciously a part of the trauma.

John has to fight the worry and allow the cool rationale that Sherlock was in a permanent relationship with to wash over his senses. He retreats into himself and comes out as the medical professional that he can always rely on. He again finds a pulse in Sherlock's neck and his breathing is regular, if not a little shaky and making the most awful grating sound. The gash on his forehead looks painful, but not too deep. As promised by a kidnapping, there are welts across his wrists and bruises all up his arms and it does look like he's had a good slapping.

John relays this all to Lestrade as they cover Sherlock with whatever they can find that's suitable from the Mazda to keep him warm. Lestrade can only nod in reply, as well as saying out loud the charges he might apply to Charlie Milverton and the amount of lies they can conceive to make up for their actions this morning. Without a doubt, professionalism is about the best comfort to soothe the madness of the past five or so hours, and both men welcome it readily as they tend to the unconscious man wrapped up in old parkas and dog blankets.

Yet this facade shatters completely for John when the ambulance arrives. He is strangely reluctant to let go of Sherlock, where Lestrade has to put a firm hand on his shoulder before his fingers can detach from Sherlock's own. The moment he lets go, his sense return to him in full force and his body angrily reminds him of the torture it has been through within the last hour. His shivers vigorously and his legs are shaking so badly he needs Greg to help him get on his feet.

Perhaps with a little insight, Lestrade insists that John goes with Sherlock in the ambulance, preaching the possibility of pneumonia and other absurd inflictions. It's only when they arrive at St Barts (Nowhere near the closest hospital... Again, another influence, most likely Mycroft this time) does John realise that he has no money, no transport and he remembers Lestrade claimed he'll pop round when Sherlock is awake. In other words, John does not have the means to go and do grievous bodily harm to Milverton.

Clever that.

* * *

When they arrive, John blindly follows the medical team through various doors and corridors, but then Sherlock is wheeled away, around a corner and out of his sight. A tall, kindly nurse gently but firmly escorts him to a private room to have a check up and finds spare clothes for him but without shoes as there is none in his size in the lost property box. It's not until a doctor is finished assessing him and that he is free to wait that he remembers leaving them by the riverbank. Along with the jumper that was given to him by Mrs Hudson. And his phone is lost and probably completely wrecked, as he realises that he must have dropped it in the river as he dived in. And he's probably going to get into trouble for today's actions, especially for beating Milverton up.

Perhaps it all triggers something, but John knows from the inside that he cannot deal with it at the moment. From then on, he once more lets his professional manner fall across him. He looks outwardly calm as he pads around on the cold hospital floor in socks, wandering awkwardly from one place to the next. He goes to the cafe and sits at a table for five minutes. He walks up and down corridors. He waits in reception. He is able to tell a little old lady by the name of Carol where the cafe is. He escorts her there, he goes back. All the while having this totally flat demeanour yet underneath, the day's events sit and simmer.

John eventually hears the news that Sherlock has had his stomach pumped and is stable and that he can sit with him until he wakes. All the checks have been made and he can go home once he's rested and well enough to get out of bed. Providing that he looks after himself, the doctor dictates, Sherlock will be fine in the weeks afterwards.

John has to physically hold back an undignified snort. It is not the doctor's fault that he has so much anger, he reminds himself. He delivers another fake smile and doesn't say a word as he is led to the private room that Sherlock is in. The doctor, taking his silence as worry, tells him many other things that all point to the fact that Sherlock is "A-okay"

John forgets to thank him when they get there, and sits on the plastic chair and stares at the man unconscious on the bed.

It's a bit of a shock, to see Sherlock look so unkempt. Even when faced with hospital care before, he has always looked rather immaculate. Here, his hair is a disarranged mess and tangle of curls. The circles under his eyes are bruised to a deep purple. The tell-tale marks of a recent knocking about are apparent on his face and the skin on his arms is like a watercolour of fresh injury.

Sherlock has always looked a little out-of-this-world. But here, he just looks like a human who has been in some terrible accident. The kind that John is used to seeing on a regular basis. And John hates this with a fury. Things like this did not happen to Sherlock.

He takes a look at his wrists and sees the marks of handcuffs. But then John can't help but hold one of his hands for support. What a pair they must look. The pale, ill looking creature on the bed and the man sitting next him is holding his hand and has no socks on.

And there John sits fuming silently hour after hour and practising many a line that he will throw at the unconscious man lying next to him. He will really let Sherlock have it. No more jokes now. No more having fun. Sherlock has been an absolute pillock and John needs to let him know for his own safety.

When Sherlock does come round, John can't help but feel that it is going to be ugly. Just as Sherlock opens his eyes, John slips his hand out of Sherlock's and folds his arms tightly. He doesn't say anything as Sherlock looks around the room before locking eyes on him, imploring him to say something.

John tries to ignore how incredibly tired and sick Sherlock looks, "How do you feel?"

Sherlock sighs, "Fine. Perfectly fine"

If John didn't know any better, it was seemed almost like Sherlock was trying to avoid rolling his eyes.

_Don't get angry._

John is able to manage about three seconds of professionalism before he realises that he has no more pretence to give today, and much to his own credit, he finds that he doesn't care.

"Right. Fine, okay. So long as you're fine"

"I am fine"

Neither of them tries to look at each other. For the first time in hours, John has noticed just how bloody loud that heart monitor is. For a moment, he has to fight the sudden impulse to pull the plug out. He can see from the corner of his eye that Sherlock is looking at him inquisitively. John prays, for his own sanity for as much as Sherlock's, that whatever is about to come out of his mouth is not something idiotic.

"Did I get here in an ambulance?"

_What._

"What the- Yes!" He has to fight the impulse to stand up, "You went in a sodding ambulance!"

This man was almost killed today; John went through hell to save him. All Sherlock can wonder about is the sodding ambulance. John can only conclude is that Sherlock does indeed come from a different planet and is in fact trying to test him.

"Oh god."

"Sherlock, what is the matter with you?"

That arrogant look that John is used to seeing Sherlock direct at thick clients is suddenly on him and he bristles at it, matching it with a look of his own.

"Spare being drowned in a car boot? _Nothing_. I'm just _peachy._"

"Right!" John bites back, "Because not telling me _where _you are, going _missing_ for almost a day and then having Lestrade telling me they've tracked some car you told them about and found it in the bottom of a river is _just fine!"_

He's aware of his own lie considering the car and Lestrade. Thankfully, it's one of the lines he had been thinking of before Sherlock came to. For some reason that even John doesn't recognise yet, he doesn't want Sherlock to know what had happened between him and Milverton.

"I don't see why you're upset-"

"God alive Sherlock" Was he really trying to wind him up? Is that what his agenda was in life? "I am not upset, I'm furious. Furious at you!"

His voice has risen, and not wanting some doctor to burst in their confrontation, he lowers his volume.

"It's another... another one of your damn crusades! Didn't it ever occur to you, did you ever _observe, _that when you do things by yourself, you actually come pretty darn close to major bodily harm?"

In reply, Sherlock petulantly turns his head away from him and stares at the ceiling. John huffs loudly, feeling pretty stupid for spewing so much... _emotion_ when Sherlock offers none in return. There is a silence that lasts roughly a minute.

If Sherlock is not going to offer an explanation for today's lucrative events, John might as well try and give his own version. But as always, what is in his head never comes out as he wants.

"You had to be in the bloody boot"

"What?" Sherlock, he notices, is still looking at the ceiling.

"I could rescue from any other place." _Or not, ironically. _"But the boot? Lestrade had to get a lock pick"

"Lestrade was there?"

"He was. Thank god. He happened to have a lock-picking device that let me get in the boot. Otherwise you would have certainly drowned-"

With that word out of his mouth, John suddenly feels like being slammed into a wall. The day is suddenly upon him, making him relieve every emotion and feeling that he has encountered within the last few hours in the space of a few seconds. There is a sick feeling in his stomach and he puts his head in his hands in attempt to block everything out. He no longer wants to be in any of this. When Sherlock's hand nervously touches his shoulder, it's like flicking a switch.

"John?"

"_Shut up_"

His voice, inquisitive and confused, is what John cannot comprehend. He pushes his hand away and finds himself on his feet, irrespective of his own fatigue.

"Shut up, Sherlock, seriously. _Shut up._ For once in your life, shut the _hell_ up!"

He paces around the small room, looking anywhere but at Sherlock's face.

"Do you know what it does to you, when your..." He can't take the words out of his mouth and throw them at Sherlock. He is aware at once at just how exhausted and fed up he is. His own face twists as he finally stares hard at Sherlock, who still looks utterly bewildered.

"You know what, I can't describe it. I can't explain to you what it's like, because you clearly _do not know"_

All it takes is for Sherlock to visibly flinch, looking like John has attacked him, and John's anger evaporates. He is taken aback at the genuine look of hurt and feels like he's visibly deflating. Sherlock, aware that he's shown John something he probably didn't want him to see, plays a blank look, but it doesn't work.

_Shit._

John doesn't have any conclusive evidence. He can't really deduce. And hell, he doesn't know everything about Sherlock. But for some reason, as their relationship has developed, John could never tell Sherlock to shut up. Not on anything. Because John not telling Sherlock to shut up was an affirmation that he was one of the few people who actually appreciated Sherlock for the person that he was.

And dear mother of god, he feels that what he's done is that he has gone too far. Sherlock may be the master of emotions, but John can see that he has hurt him. Badly.

He sits on the chair. He thinks about reaching for Sherlock, but that ultimately is not a good idea and John decides to nervously clasp his hands together.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock"

Sherlock looks at him, and it is a very serious look indeed. "It won't happen again" he replies curtly.

Relief is what he feels first. And Sherlock sounding like a school teacher. And the fact that he's alive. And that everything is in fact _okay..._

"Not without me there. You're invincible with me there"

The words sound utterly stupid. But for some reason, they are the perfect words of comfort. Everything is back. And everything will be different.

"We're both invincible"

"I'd like to think that"

Sherlock grins. John is back on his feet, walking to the end of his bed.

"Where are your charts?" He's thinking about what happened when they first got to the hospital. "I didn't like how the nurse took your temperature the first time"

"She couldn't be that bad"

They've gotten away with it this time. If barely. However, it will do for now.


End file.
